Birds: The High Flying Marker of Status

Every Tuesday on VF.com, filmmaker Jamie Johnson offers a glimpse into the secret lives of the super-rich.

Bird watching is a vicious sport. Just the other day I received my first taunting email of the spring migration season. “Have you seen one of these in NY yet, loser?” the subject heading in my inbox read. It was the preface to a photograph of a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak, which an old friend of mine had taken and sent to me as a gesture of one-upmanship.

The maneuver cut me to the bone. Because, not only have I missed seeing a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak this season—I have missed seeing one over the course of my entire life. It is a species I am unable to include on my list of sighted birds, which in the birding community is the leading marker of status. Those who have observed more are credited with greater expertise, and therefore command higher levels of respect among peers.

Years ago, I assumed, as do many people who are unfamiliar with bird watching, that the pastime attracted only the gentlest souls. I imagined it to be the kind of friendly, non-threatening activity that residents at a retirement community might enjoy. But a few summers back, during a holiday trip to my parent’s vacation home, I encountered a group of avid birders, friends of my mother and father, who were also visiting as houseguests for the weekend.

One afternoon following a long lunch, they announced their plans to step out for a “birding adventure.” And while it sounded idiotic to me— I couldn’t fathom how anyone could describe strolling around with binoculars as anything grander than a “walk”—I immediately rose from my seat, hoping to tag along. At the time, I was making a documentary film about wealth in America, and knowing that these particular houseguests were quite rich, I figured I might have the opportunity to gather information on matters relating to my film during the off-moments of the trip.

But even before I was able to accompany them out the front door, the man who had initiated the outing stopped, turned around, and raised his hand to my chest. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going with you,” I replied. “I’ve never been, and I’d like to check it out.”

And in a patronizing tone of the sort only the most condescending pricks can master, he said, “Yeah, well, I think you’re going to have to stay here. You see, birding is not for everybody.”

I was stunned, but soon enough I began to understand what troubled this self-important enthusiast. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing his reputation in the field by associating with a neophyte. It was a good old-fashioned spurning. And I didn’t respond with maturity or thoughtfulness. Instead of just accepting this guy’s arrogance for what it was and walking away with my integrity intact, I decided to try to beat him at his own game. For the rest of the summer, I read all of the best books on the subject and trekked out into pristine bird habitat with binoculars every time the chance arose. I was training for the following season when, without a doubt, I would have to face my parents’ friend again.

But the opportunity never presented itself. And in an ironic turn of events, I grew to genuinely enjoy birding. I started to acquire special birding clothing, adopt birding lingo, and, I must admit, even organize exclusive “birding adventures” of my own. Without fully realizing it, I was gradually cultivating all of the affectation and arrogance I so disliked in my family’s houseguest.

This spring, however, I have started to wonder if the pretensions and the gamesmanship in the birding world can’t be traced back, at least to some degree, to attitudes held by the leisure class. In all fairness, how else can one interpret an amateur naturalist’s snobbery? It’s a well-known fact that the individuals responsible for founding the birding community were affluent. In addition to having the free time to appreciate nature, they were the largest contributors to conservation efforts. And today, they are the patrons who hold seats on the board of the Audubon Society, the most influential philanthropic institution in the field of wildlife protection. Without their involvement, it’s hard to imagine what the birding community would look like.

John James Audubon, the earliest American bird expert, for whom the Audubon society is named, wasn’t a nice guy either, according to art historians with the greatest knowledge of his work. Elitism hardly describes the sense of self-worth that Audubon wore like a cloak. Even though he wasn’t rich, he never acknowledged a wealth of talent and purpose greater than his own. Perhaps his attitude—and his extraordinary artistic skill—magnify the snobbery brought to bird watching by the rich.

Next month the 26th Annual World Series of Birding (yes, I’m serious) takes place just a short distance from Manhattan, in Southern New Jersey. I’m thinking of attending myself. It should be a great opportunity to observe that elusive Rose-Breasted Grosbeak. But even if I miss it, I’ll undoubtedly have a chance to admire the pretensions on display.